


Your First Ride Share

by An_Ode



Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bounty Hunting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, No baby yoda YET, One-shot to kick it off, Pre-Series, Sassy, Slow Burn, first installment, mentions of slave trade, no y/n, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ode/pseuds/An_Ode
Summary: “You put a bounty out on yourself.” His voice is incredulous, even through the modulator.“I needed a ride.”
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711711
Comments: 25
Kudos: 230





	Your First Ride Share

The first time you see him fight is on some scarp planet in the Outer Rim. He’s agile, angry, and shoots more than a few gangbangers in the middle of town square. He also takes more hits than a good fighter probably should, like with the protection of his armor comes carelessness.

You’re standing in the doorway of an old medicine shop whose sign boasts about nothing particularly boast worthy. Without looking away from the raging fight, you dig your teeth into the brown stick in your hand, tearing off another stringy bit of jerky. It’s not the best meal you’ve had in weeks, but its close.

People don’t seem too phased by the bodies piling up in their common square. You’re pretty sure you saw a shop owner roll their eyes in annoyance before strapping their windows tight and moving breakables to the back corner. Common place violence desensitizes even the most vulnerable. At least, you hope it does. Maybe the brick in your chest will alleviate at some point if that’s true.

A stray blaster shot flies a little too close for comfort, the instinctual flinch in the opposite direction moving you further into the doorway.

“Look lady, either buy something or get out.” Turning to see the irate medicine man, you make pointed eye contact. With deliberate slowness, you tear off another bite of jerky.

“You’ll never make it out alive Mando!” The garbled response is lost in the din of blaster fire and the clamor of a nearby hut’s untimely destruction.

Dust clouds your view, an unnatural stillness in the air and you think the fight is over. There’s a slight tingle of disappointment. They had barely engaged in fisticuffs, keeping their distance and taking cheap shots at one another like children. Sighing deeply, you stroll out of the unsatisfactory shop. Pace leisurely, the victor yet to be determined.

“Drop the kid.” Every muscle in your body freezes at those three words. Squinting harshly, their outlines come into focus as the dust settles.

“Come on Mando, I’m not going back to Nevarro.”

“Drop the kid.” The modulated voice is deep, harsh, a throbbing rage. The hair on your arms spike at the sound.

“Drop your blaster.” Panic runs through your veins as you register the kid’s face.

Davon is barely past his tenth year, a skinny little nothing with more manners than this planet should afford him. His jaunty little walk was the first to greet you in this dust bowl, big blue eyes wide in wonder as a stranger wandered into his town. You’d tipped him a credit when his slim finger pointed you towards the medicinal shop you were looking for. He was a good kid, and he was about to die. A bounty hunter, a _Mandalorian_ at that, putting his blaster down for anyone? Impossible.

The dust has mostly settled, the square empty of everyone but the Mandalorian, his adversary, and Davon. The sound of heavy metal hitting the dirt has your focus shifting from the kid to the Mandalorian, and then you see it. A zing of shock locks your limbs in place as it registers – he dropped his blaster.

A million scenarios run through your mind. Do you make a sound, call the gangbanger’s attention to you? Would that make him loosen his grip or pull the trigger? Eyes wild, there is nothing useful to attack him with. Your blaster is ancient, and your shot is mediocre at best. What about–

Gurgling, a woman screaming, a body hitting the floor.

If there wasn’t a very obvious knife sticking out of the dumbass’ throat, you might ask what just _kriffing_ happened. Davon is wrapped in his older sister’s arms, eyes wide and caught on a shining besker helmet. Like a cheap novel on the interplanetary station you visited a few weeks back, his cape takes the initiative to rustle in the wind, making him a cliché in seconds. Somehow though, the flick of a black cape seems to make him a more imposing figure. It’s a unique combination. He wears it well.

The second time you see the Mandalorian bounty hunter, you’re sitting in a dingy cantina on Nevarro waiting for a contact. You don’t normally drink, but it’s been a rough few months. It had taken you nearly six weeks to track down that medicinal shop only to come up empty. Three months have passed and you’re still looking.

You watch as three identical Mandalorians walk through the door, your eyes blown wide open at the sight. Maybe that third drink wasn’t your best life choice.

You can’t stop staring. Its unbecoming, certainly not your finest moment, but you can’t seem to look away. Even when your contact sits next to you at the bar. Even when she starts telling you all the things you need to know. Like an infant fascinated by their own fingers, you stare on.

When he briskly rises from his seat, nothing can stop you from flinching back against the hard oak behind you. He walks out without a word. You walk out without your dignity.

The third time you see him it starts to feel like a sign from the universe. Or a case of subconscious stalking, which you wouldn’t necessarily put past your brain at this point in your life. The past 10 years have been a doozy, there is bound to be some lasting damage to your psyche.

But really, your first thought is how his timing was just undeniably impeccable. Getting choked out by an angry Devaronian is _not_ your idea of a good time. So, when you hear a weapon charge and the telltale grunt of pain from the devil horned piss-ant in front of you, there is relief. When he hits his knees and reveals the Mandalorian behind him, you can’t quiet the snort you let out.

He doesn’t say a word. Not a single thing. There may have been some sort of head nod in your direction, but that might have just been him existing. The whole exchange, though exchange is a strong word, is a total of 30 seconds.

The fourth time you see him is by far the most phenomenal of them all. Like a loose berg, he comes crashing through the hall you’re standing in. The screams of pampered dignitaries ring out alongside the echoes of shattering glass.

Rolling in, gun already up and trained in front of him, his helmet sweeps the area. You can’t help the brow you raise. The exasperated look you’re throwing him seems to summon his attention.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.” For a second time you can’t help the snort you release.

“This is preposterous! You have no right!” Nigre is trying to retain his composure, but a pampered upbringing and a lack of combat training lend him little in the way of nerve.

“I don’t want you. I’m here for the Sage.” With as much fake trepidation as you can muster, you turn to Nigre.

“I knew this might one day be my fate, your liege.” Hands fold before you as your shoulders droop in feigned submission. The head bow might be laying it on just a _bit_ too thick, but the room eats it up.

“You cannot take her!”

“This bounty puck says I can.”

“Please, I will have no one harmed in my name.” Turning to the bounty hunter, blaster steady, you nod once more. “I will go peacefully, Mandalorian.”

Echoing cries of shock and fear fade as he leads you through ornate halls speckled with priceless art and gilded stone. The palace in Enrock is beautiful, you’ll be sad to see it go. Everyone that lives inside its walls, not so much.

By the time you find yourself walking up the dull metal ramp into his ship, the cuffs he slipped over your wrists are chaffing. Neither of you say a word, but him practically dragging you up the ladder to the cockpit is communication enough. Dropping you into the co-pilots chair, he is seated and flicking switches before you have time to take in how seamless that whole exchange was.

When you hit hyperspace, still not a word between you, he swivels around slowly. You give him a tightlipped smile and then he’s speaking.

“I know you.” It’s not quite a statement not quite a questions.

“I don’t know you.”

“I know your face.”

“I definitely don’t know yours.” His head tilts to the side and you hope it’s a sign of amusement and not incensed rage. When he doesn’t go on, you throw him a bone. “We’ve crossed paths. You did me a service a few months back. Shot a particularly rowdy Devaronian.”

Spine straightening even more, you take it as a sign of acquiescence. Humming lowly, you settle back comfortably into the chair, arms crossed over your stomach. Bright streaks of stars flying by impossibly fast reflect off his helmet, the rest of his lack luster protection unable to shine in the same way.

“Nevarro.” It’s your turn to tilt your head. “You were at the bar. Staring.”

“Caught that did ya?” You hope there was a change in temperature to account for how your cheeks seem to be on _kriffing_ fire.

“You weren’t subtle.”

“Is anyone, three Jawa Juices in?” you can’t help but throw back, eyes shifting to watch the stars again.

Some sort of sound seems to emit from him, but you can’t be entirely sure what it is with how muffled it comes out. In your head you imagine he is humming in agreement, mind wandering to nights blurred around the edges.

“We’ll be on Aleen in a few hours.”

You nod, expecting your exchange to conclude until your destination is reached. The galaxy flies past and for the first time in years you feel the urgent press of a giggle rise up in your throat. What, exactly, will this bounty hunter do when he discovers he is delivering you to yourself?

When he speaks an hour later, you’re surprised.

“Why is there a bounty out on you?” An inordinate amount of pride flairs when you don’t jerk at the unexpected question.

“Why’d you take it?” He grunts in annoyance but goes on to answer.

“I was asked for specifically.”

“Does that make you feel pleased?” You can’t help the genuine question as it slips past your lips. “A bounty hunter has little but his word and reputation. A specific request must mean you’re doing something right… or wrong, depending on which way you fall in that debate.”

“Are you done?”

“No, but because I’m so benevolent, I’ll keep my more invasive questions to myself.”

“This is you keeping things to yourself?”

“Was insulting me in your contract too?” The thrill that goes through you is one of pride and arrogance, knowing insulting comments were not in the contract because you wrote it.

After a moment he leans forward, a hunch in his shoulders that must imply something, but its meaning escapes you.

“Your contract was specific.” You cock your head. “I’ve never been asked for and I’ve never had a bounty puck with such explicit instructions.”

There is some sort of standoff happening here, but you’re far too busy trying to suppress your amusement. The myriad of vivid scenes that could unfold in a few hours once you reach Aleen distracting you.

“The only thing it didn’t mention in detail was _why_.”

“Do you worry about the ‘why’ for every bounty you take, Mandalorian?”

“Only for the ones that ask for me by name.” There is a menace in his words, but it makes you want to push his buttons even more, see what you can get out of him.

“By name, hm? I didn’t think your kind gave those out.”

You may not be able to read him well, but the silence is cutting this time around. Rolling your lips in to keep from smiling, you refrain from shaking your fists in triumph.

By the time you land at the coordinates on Aleen’s surface, a small sliver of fear pricks at the back of your neck, realizing that maybe you’ve fucked up for the last time. A rush of blind arrogance follows it, certain your time isn’t up, and that your insights into the Mandalorian aren’t wrong.

Dragging you down the ladder, his grip on your arm is even tighter than before. He slams the control panel on the wall with enough force to hurt and you can’t help the comment that slips out.

“A little touchy there, Mandalorian?” He neglects to answer.

The familiar rocky terrain that greets you is comforting in a way you don’t expect. It has been a while since you’ve last seen it– years in fact. You hop around more than you stay still, attachment long ago beaten out of you. The sense of comfort these jagged rocks and desolate landscape bring is unfamiliar.

The man next to you, and you’re almost positive he is in fact, a _he,_ does a sweep of the area. It’s something you’re recognizing as a habit of his. The bounty puck appears in his hand seconds later, holographic image of your unsmiling face rotating lazily. He scrolls through the information for a third time before closing it down. When he turns back to face you, you know it’s time to give up the ghost, so to speak.

“If you uncuff me, I can pay you.” Keeping your voice even is surprisingly a challenge.

“Explain.” There’s that throbbing rage again. It’s not nearly as interesting when its directed at you. For fear of pissing him off more, you just extend your arms towards him and give them a little shake.

“You put a bounty out on yourself.” His voice is incredulous, even through the modulator.

“I needed a ride.”

A beat passes in silence. After another few seconds of what you assume is internal debate, he reaches forward and tugs you by the cuffs still around your wrists.

“ _Explain.”_ He grits it out this time, voice the deepest you’ve heard it yet. A tingle of fear runs down your spine, but like all the other times faced with intimidation techniques, your instincts kick in. And by that you mean your mouth does.

“You’re getting paid to not ask questions bounty hunter.” It doesn’t come out quite as hard as you intend it to, the lilt running along the statement makes it less intimidating and more goading. You want to ask him how he gets his voice so scary.

It becomes obvious he will not release you until the situation is, in fact, explained so you contemplate what to share. Filtering your words has taken effort. Over the years you’ve gotten better at it, but your curious nature makes it difficult to stop the tumbling questions at the most inopportune times. You let out a sigh that only wavers slightly.

“Look, as a Sage I can get into some… tricky spots that take a bit of creative thinking to get out of.”

“What on _Enrock_ was tricky?” The way he sneers the name says a lot.

“Nigre, the stiff-collared, pasty bean-pole? He wanted to marry me.” Of all the things you were about to say, that seems to be the last thing he expects. At least, if the way he rears back is any indication.

“And you put a bounty out on yourself instead of saying no?”

“I couldn’t say no.”

“Why?” You know he’s going to hate the next words out of your mouth.

“It’s complicated.”

That is the understatement of the century. You forget sometimes that Sage culture is not discussed. Even though your kind had burned out before the Clone Wars, you are even less tangible in the now.

 _Whispers on the walls_ , you hear in your head. You haven’t thought about that voice in a long time. Or at least you try not to. When he still doesn’t move, you huff a breath of frustration.

“Look, I have your money. Uncuff me and then I’ll be out of your hair…” You tilt you head in contemplation. It obvious, you know you shouldn’t ask, but it’ll eat you alive if you don’t – “do you have hair under there?”

The only response he gives is the gentle hum from electro-cuffs powering down. They slip off, left hand catching them before they hit the ground. You rub the skin on your wrist with your free hand, muttering about brutality and respecting the puck’s _explicit_ instructions. He ignores you.

Your hand slips into the front of your shirt, eyes never leaving the long strip of black on his helmet. The constant muttering all the while cannot be helped.

Grasping the delicate gold chain, you tug it up and out to reveal an unnecessary large stone. It’s a garish pink, so bright it’d made you squint when revealed as a gift for you to wear, _always_. You present the stone as clearly as you can with the chain still wrapped around your neck.

“This is a cousin of the Corusca gem. It’ll fetch more than the bounty promised. There’s a dealer on–”

“You pay in credits or you go into carbonite.” Your eye twitches, annoyance rising.

“Let’s walk this through, shall we? You stick me in carbonite, and what, bring me back to Navarro? If you’ve somehow forgotten your revelation from thirty seconds ago, I put that bounty out on myself, which means no one else is going to pay for my frozen ass. You could try your hand at selling me to a slave trader, but it will take more time and effort than it would if you just took this kriffing stone to the buyer _I already lined up for you_ , and you won’t get nearly as much for me as you would for it.”

“You’re a Sage, you’re rare. That makes you valuable.”

“Ahh, yes, but it also comes with regulations and the headache of paperwork. The only people who care about Sages these days are the idle rich with too much money and not enough sense. That means you’d need to go Inner Rim, where regulations on slave trading are more constricting and, be still my beating heart, _heavily taxed_.”

You assume he is contemplating the truth in your words, so you keep your face and stance as neutral as possible, stone still hanging between you. On reflex, your left hand tightens around the cuffs. Before you can think it through, you slip the necklace over your head and extend your hand.

Like a watch meant to hypnotize, it swings rhythmically between you. After a beat, his gloved hand raises towards the gem and eventually, all five fingers close over it. You feel a relief that may be premature.

“Good doing business with you.” You extend your hand out again, this time with the cuffs he’d deactivated hanging from your pointer finger.

He turns without a word and strides back to his ship. You call out the name of the gem’s buyer and his location at a retreating back, but it can’t put you off this feeling of elations. You roll your neck, then your wrists, ankles next and release a breath you didn’t realize you’ve been holding.

“Why me?” You spin back to face him. His back is still to you, one foot on the ramp.

“Because you dropped your blaster.”

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I have not written a fic in literally over a year. I was resigned to never writing again (dramatic I am aware) but I just couldn't NOT write a story around the stray dialogue that's been haunting me for days. So here we are. This is the first in a series. I am excited, and also fearful of my muse leaving me shrivel on the bathroom floor once more. Inspiration, you fickle bitch.


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